


Four Musketeers and One Merry Masquerade

by libraryv



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Banter, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, secret passageways, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: The four musketeers are on duty during a royal Christmas masquerade when things go suddenly, very, awry.
Relationships: d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux
Comments: 45
Kudos: 67





	1. A Masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> I usually write the boys somewhere vaguely outside of the show timeline, but this is the first fic that can be nailed down to sometime between the end of season 1 and the beginning of season 2.

“I feel ridiculous,” d’Artagnan muttered, and pulled on the plain burgundy velvet mask covering his eyes and nose. It was tied in the back with a black ribbon, which felt too tight.

“How are we supposed to keep an eye out for a threat?” 

Porthos chuckled, tugging at his own emerald green one.

“Ah, but it works wonders with women. It lends you an air of mystery.” 

“I think they can guess who we are,” said d’Artagnan grumpily, gesturing to the sky-blue capes that they all wore over one shoulder, marking their Musketeer status. 

Porthos only chuckled.

D'Artagnan's head hurt, and his throat was distantly sore. A winter ague had made its way through the ranks, and he had insisted he was not affected by it. He knew very well that both Athos and Aramis would be smug if he so much as sniffled; he had willfully stomped over both of their gentle suggestions that he stay behind at the garrison for the evening.

D’Artagnan cleared his throat determinedly, gave his mask a last tug, and focused on the ballroom and the grandness on display in front of them. It was hard to see, among the mass of whirling guests, if anything was out of place.

Hundreds of couples, resplendent in masked finery, twirled in dizzying time with the sweeping music. Candles flickered in sconces, glittering a thousand times over in the mirrors lining the walls. The sea of people shifted and churned with waves of elaborate costumes, feathers and shining silk, glass and jet beads, all glittering in the semi-darkness.

Tables lined with cedar boughs were overflowing with bowls of oranges, figs, foie gras and mulled wine. Guests crowded around a centrepiece made of a massive Buche de Noel, surrounded by sugared berries.

At the far end of the room, somewhat removed from the revelry, sat the king and queen on a raised dais. Two musketeers stood stationed at their sides.

“Their majesties look well,” observed Athos at his shoulder. 

“The queen, especially,” added Aramis.

D’Artagnan was more interested in the group of women clustered some distance away from them; he had been trying to ignore Constance since the beginning of the evening. Somehow, though, she and her friends had moved closer to where he stood. Or was it the other way round?

He was all too aware of the long chestnut hair to his left, of the flashing smile beneath the silver mask of its bearer. 

Impatient with his stuffy nose and with standing around watching proceedings, d’Artagnan came to a sudden decision. He ran a hand through his hair, carefully tousling it, and readjusted his cape over his shoulder in what he hoped was the most dashing angle. 

“I’m going to ask Constance for a dance.”

Aramis smiled. 

“Ah, no one is immune to the call of love, and nothing can stand in its way,” he stated grandly. 

He looked meaningfully in the direction of the thrones, which confused d’Artagnan, and drew the corners of Athos’ mouth down in disapproval.

Porthos snorted. 

“I can see you’ve been enjoyin’ the wine.” He looked at d’Artagnan.

“An’ weren’t _you_ saying, jus’ this mornin, that you didn’ need Constance? Didn’ she resolve to stay away from you? ”

D’Artagnan shrugged, grinning.

“I like my chances.”

Aramis nodded his approval.

“I do, too. Bonacieux isn’t here tonight, and the stage is set for romance.”

Porthos shook his head, smiled, and gave in with a bit of teasing.

“This isn’ a country dance, lad. It’s a royal masquerade.”

“D’Artagnan straightened his spine. 

“I can dance. Rather well, actually.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged grins at this familiar display of indignant stubbornness.

Porthos clapped a heavy hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

“Rather well? I’ll bet five livres tha’ you stumble through the Allemande.”

Athos had been tracking their conversation while keeping a steady watch on the room. He turned his head at this last comment, the blue eyes beneath his own black mask lit with amusement. He gave Porthos’ hand a firm shake, merely saying, 

“D’Artagnan is full of surprises.”

Porthos chuckled delightedly at the bet, and mussed d’Artagnan’s carefully arranged hair.

“Well, go on, then, Sir Lovelorn. Show us how it’s done.” 

D’Artagnan could feel Aramis and Porthos’ eyes on his back as he moved towards Constance and her cluster of friends. For all his talk, he felt out of his depth. His last interaction with her had been painful for them both, and they hadn’t spoken since.

He approached the group of young women, slowing his stride. He could feel his own pulse, and he realized his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. He swallowed, feeling a bit ill, and couldn’t decide whether he really was catching cold or whether it was just nerves. Maybe he should turn around, Porthos and Aramis’ teasing be damned. 

Just as the thought occurred to him, one of the ladies saw him and whispered something in Constance’s ear. She turned, and he was forced to take the last few steps with her watchful eyes burning into his, her friends giggling.

He stood in front of her, momentarily stunned by being close to her again. She looked beautiful: a gown of silver with a daring neckline that showed off her lovely skin, shining curls that contrasted with the roses in her cheeks, and best of all, that inherent vivacity she carried within her that no mask could ever conceal.

“Why, good evening, sir,” she said, breaking protocol by speaking to him first.

D’Artagnan had always loved that about her; Constance was never much one for rules. 

He caught her game immediately, and recovering himself, swept into a rather overdone bow that he knew his brothers would rib him for afterwards.

“Good evening, milady. I noticed you from across the room and simply had to know your name.”

Constance dimpled, shaking her head playfully.

“That, I cannot give you. After all, it would defeat the purpose of the masquerade.”

“Mademoiselle, I assure you, the purpose of this masquerade is to dance, and if you can’t give me your name, perhaps you’ll give me your hand.”

He could almost _feel_ Porthos and Aramis’ merriment from where he stood. 

Constance was grinning up at him, bathing him in her sunlit smile, and she placed her hand into his offered one with clear delight. Maybe Porthos was right about masquerades.

D’Artagnan swept them into the dance, revolving neatly through the spins and steps. He hadn’t been lying; he _could_ dance well. His mother and father had made sure of it; saying he would be glad of the skill in Paris. 

Ignoring the pang that always came with thoughts of his father, D’Artagnan steered them towards the edge of the floor where his brothers stood, and beamed pointedly at Porthos over Constance’s shoulder.

Porthos rolled his eyes, grinning back, and d’Artagnan twirled Constance back into the heart of the dance again, but not before catching a quick flash of coin as it left Porthos’ hand and transferred into Athos’ palm.

Dancing he could do; talking easily to Constance he could not. His brothers were constantly after him about not being able to stop talking, but now he was positively tongue-tied. He could feel her frank blue eyes on him as looked down at his feet. 

He spun her out with a bit of embellishment. It served the double purpose of impressing her, and earning him a few moments to gather his thoughts.

He caught her at the end of the twirl smoothly, pulling her back to him, and gave in, losing himself in her gaze. He let himself feel everything that he had denied for the past month. 

Constance was an entire world that he wasn’t allowed to live in, but for as long as this dance lasted, he could visit. 

His hand tightened on her waist, and she drew closer. All thoughts of a stuffy nose and a heavy head were long forgotten. Her face was so close to his. Forbidden, long-restrained desire engulfed him, and he had to fight to stay collected. 

He desperately ran through a mental sword fight, reviewing the steps of a complicated parry that Athos hand shown him that morning. 

Parry, turn, _thrust_ …

Not helping. He pressed his lips together and Constance smiled at him knowingly. She breathed in, and he felt it against his chest. Words were sparking at the tip of his tongue, words that he had promised himself he would never say.

He looked up at the faces dancing around them, seeking relief from the surge of emotion he was currently drowning in. 

His attention was grabbed by two men wearing the same blue mask, detailed with a peacock feather, and d’Artagnan smiled to himself. How unfortunate to attend a masquerade wearing the same costume as another! The dance had them do a series of quick turns, facing the other way. _Three_ men wearing the same mask. 

And none of them with partners.

Another turn, and d’Artagnan saw that the men in the blue masks were all walking through the crowd, in the same direction. Towards the thrones on the dais at the end of the room. 

“D’Artagnan?” Constance’s voice was keenly sharp. 

He looked wildly around the room for the blue capes of the Musketeers. He couldn’t see them, but no matter, he hadn’t lost sight of the men in the peacock masks. 

“D’Artagnan.”

He looked down at her briefly, and he saw the concern in her eyes. Then, the candles around the room went out as one, and the ballroom was plunged into sudden darkness.


	2. Let's Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the mysterious masked men pull their stunt, d'Artagnan must take action. Constance reveals a secret that complicates things, and things look a bit bleak until...

There was a terrible, strangled noise as the orchestra screeched to a messy halt. A flood of whispers broke out, and then a few shouts were thrown into the darkness. Slowly, the sound of grasping hands and shuffling silk became an agitated thunder. 

Bodies began to stream towards the grand double doors towards the far end of the room. A table was flipped over, whether on purpose or by accident, and the resounding crash of crystal and pewter hitting the floor seemed to add fuel to the panicked fire. More shouting, and the ball was quickly descending into chaos. 

Constance was still in d’Artagnan’s arms; they stood frozen as the surrounding crowd began to break and pull against them.

“The queen,” she whispered.

Her words snapped him into action, and he began to pull away.

“I must-” he began, but Constance put a hand to his chest.

“You don’t understand. I’m here tonight with a message for the queen.”

“Surely-”

“D’Artagnan.”

Her tone was commanding in a way he had never heard.

“I have a token I must give to her in person, tonight. No one but me.”

“Constance-”

“It has to be me, d’Artagnan. It is the queen’s command.”

D’Artagnan had no idea how Constance had come to be a royal messenger to the queen, or from where the letter had come. All he knew was that he trusted Constance, and that made up his mind.

He pulled on the silk cord that knotted his cape, pulling it free and whipping it around to settle on her shoulders. He undid his belted scabbard and circled it around her waist, tugging it against her hips as he leaned forward and spoke directly into her ear.

“Listen carefully.”

His nimble fingers worked at doing the belt, keeping her close and upright against the tide of people swarming past. He felt her shudder at his breath close to her neck; this felt far more intimate than their dance.

“This is for protection. There’s a hidden seam in the wall behind you, right underneath the candelabrum; it’s the only one in the ballroom with three branches. Make sure no one notices you use the door, although I doubt they will. Follow the passage until you reach a split. Take the left. It will take you to the outside balcony on the north side of the palace. Wait for me there. I’ll bring the queen.”

She nodded, and even though it wasted precious seconds, even as he felt bodies rushing past them, even though it was forbidden, d’Artagnan brought his hands up and framed her face. He bent his head towards hers, and kissed her.

It felt as though the world stopped, along with his heart, when she responded. She kissed him with a touch of ferocity, and he floated in blissful, Constance-coloured oblivion for a few moments, using his tongue to speak without words.

Then he slowed, and Constance smiled against his mouth. 

They were out of time. He brushed a thumb across her cheek, stopping a lone tear in its tracks.

“Go,” she said. He turned her gently around, facing her in the right direction. 

“Do you have it?”

“Straight ahead. Candelabrum with three arms above a hidden door. Down a hallway, first left, and I’ll meet you on the north side balcony.”

God, he lov-

God, he admired her. 

“Go!” she exclaimed again. 

His hands dropped from her waist, and d’Artagnan didn’t look back as he dodged his way to the crowd. Their majesties must have been whisked away to safety by his fellow musketeers. His eyes were adjusting to the dim light; if he could only spot-

There. He caught the flash of a silky peacock feather out of the corner of his eye, and shoved his way towards it.

It was bobbing among the sea of heads towards a door in the far right corner, and d’Artagnan let the current of the crowd carry him through. In the mayhem of the outside hall, servants and palace guards were ushering people towards the grand staircase. It was easy for the peacock costumed man to escape detection as he edged along the wall and disappeared around the corner, but d’Artagnan saw.

He tore after the man, feeling smug. That hallway lead to a formal sitting room and nothing else. It was a dead end. 

He hurtled around the corner, stopping suddenly on the marbled floor. Moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the shimmering mask of his opponent as the man turned and faced him. 

D’Artagnan’s hand flew to his waist, except-

_No sword._

The masked man smiled, drawing his own blade. 

“I was told I should beware the young Musketeer from Gascony.”

They circled each other, d’Artagnan looking about wildly for something, _anything_ , to use as a weapon. 

The man cocked his head.

“They say you are somewhat skilled with a blade.”

“Is that what they say? Lend me yours and I shall give you quite a tale to bring back.”

The masked man laughed, then lunged, and d’Artagnan dodged, bending low and twirling to the side as he threw a quick elbow to the man’s side.

They circled again, already slightly out of breath.

D’Artagnan winked.

“If you even make it back, that is.”

His enemy sliced forward again, and d’Artagnan swung his fist, but the man saw it coming and grabbed it in his own. D’Artagnan knew what was going to happen, and let go, but he wasn’t quick enough, and he felt the edge of the blade catch his side as he pulled away. 

D’Artagnan gasped, but he didn’t think it had been deep. Not too bad. What had him worried was the appearance of two other peacock-masked men appearing at the end of the hall, pacing in their direction.

His opponent glanced behind him, then turned back to d’Artagnan and smiled widely. D’Artagnan fought hard against a surge of panic. He was backing up slowly as they advanced; they would soon have him with his back against the wall. 

If he had to go down, he’d take one with him. He was just thinking about who would be best to attack first, when the man at the back of the group reached up and lifted his mask to his forehead. He dropped it immediately down again, but not before d’Artagnan caught the blue eyes and conspiratorial expression of Athos.

D’Artagnan couldn’t stop the smile from breaking out on his face.

The man directly in front of him scoffed.

“You Musketeers are all the same. Superior to the end.”

“Who says this is the end?” said d’Artagnan, as Athos walked a few steps forward, breaking to the front of the group, and tossing a sword through the air towards him. 

D’Artagnan caught it, and Athos moved swiftly to stand at his side as the other men gasped. The leader snarled.

“In fact,” d’Artagnan continued, as the five men faced off, “the evening’s just beginning, isn’t it?”

Athos nodded beside him, anticipating and picking up the joke in his soft voice.

“Gentlemen, we are at a masquerade, are we not?”

D’Artagnan and Athos stepped forward, their raised blades reflecting quicksilver moonlight. D’Artagnan grinned.

“Let’s dance.”


	3. Cutthroats and Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and d'Artagnan face down the mysterious invaders and reunite with Porthos and Aramis.

It was a frozen tableaux of heightened nerves as d’Artagnan and Athos stared the group of peacock masked-men down. At d’Artagnan’s words, the leader scoffed.

“Always running off at the mouth with a sharp tongue.”

D’Artagnan felt anger rising hot in his cheeks, gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, and in the darkness, strained to see into the man’s eyes.

“That’s not the only thing I have that’s sharp.”

D’Artagnan felt Athos’ elbow press gently into his side in warning, and his brother’s voice was full of smooth control as he spoke.

“Tell us your purpose here this evening.”

The man spat on the ground at their feet. 

“As if we’d tell you.”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes.

“That wasn’t a request.”

The leader brought his blade down in a sudden rush, and a steel note sang through the air as d’Artagnan blocked it with his own. 

He couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face, but his breath was sour as he chuckled.

“I will tell you this: your precious king and queen are without their musketeers. What good are you to them here?”

D’Artagnan smiled. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He stepped back so swiftly that the man lost his footing, stumbling forward, and d’Artagnan brought his sword up, only to be blocked by another one of the men. There was a moment of silence, then the fight began in earnest.

Aside from sporadic moonlight through the windows as they passed back and forth, the men fought in darkness. D’Artagnan and Athos, using the silent language of fencing that they shared with each other, had the definite advantage as their adversaries stumbled blindly. 

“Good timing, by the way,” panted d’Artagnan over his shoulder as he stepped nimbly to his right, enabling Athos to make a deadly high strike on the outside.

Athos moved behind him and to his left, and d’Artagnan executed a tricky slice to one of the men’s ribs.

“Indeed. I saw you race out of the ballroom with your usual disregard for planning.”

D’Artagnan managed to exhale a chuckle while simultaneously narrowly avoiding a stab to the thigh.

“I had to catch them! I had to act!”

Athos’ breathless huff of laughter matched his younger brother’s.

“Alone and without thinking, apparently. One of these days you will not have my sword to rely on.”

They switched places again, and d’Artagnan caught Athos’ teasing smile.

“Excuse me, _your_ sword? I could have taken them.”

“Yes, you looked entirely in control when I appeared.”

They swirled around each other again, standing back to back and facing the remaining two men. The musketeer’s swords rested against their opponents’ throats.

D’Artagnan could feel sweaty strands of hair sticking to the mask still covering the top half of his face. He really must be getting sick with that blasted cold, because his head was swimming. He allowed himself to lean a bit into Athos’ shoulders, and felt his brother brace reassuringly against the weight. 

They stood in a patch of dim light that brought out the fear in the leader’s eyes.

D’Artagnan grinned. 

“What was it you said? ‘Beware the young Musketeer from Gascony.’ I do hope I didn’t disappoint.”

The man didn’t say anything in reply, but he was sweating with exertion and nerves; it glistened at his throat. Athos’ voice came clear and deadly at d’Artagnan’s back.

“Again: tell us your purpose this evening, or pay the forfeit.”

The leader swallowed against the tip of d’Artagnan’s sword. 

“I won’t tell you anything. And you should know,” his eyes seemed to bore into d’Artagnan’s with cruel glee, “that we told your little mistress back there that she’s playing a game she doesn’t understand.”

Rage shot through d’Artagnan, white-hot and strong, and he brought his hand back. He felt Athos do the same at his back, then, they both thrust forward in tandem, finishing the fight.

D’Artagnan stood, swaying slightly with adrenaline and frustration. Had they managed to get to Constance? 

Athos had knelt down and was busy untying another peacock mask from the leader’s face. After a few seconds of quick fingerwork, he pulled it off, holding it out to d’Artagnan.

“Here. Change it for your own. I do not know what they are up to, but this will help us find out.”

D’Artagnan obliged, yanking off his own burgundy one and basking in the feeling of the cool air on his face. He reached up to tie the new one on, and winced at the shock of pain that stung his side.

“Are you hurt?”

Athos had his hand raised out, as if to steady him. 

“No.”

D’Artagnan blew out a heavy breath and ignored the doubt radiating from Athos.

“I have to find Constance.”

Athos shook his head.

“Before anything else, we must make sense of their plan.”

“If they have her-”

Athos stopped suddenly as the sound of shuffling boots came closer. They both stilled, and d’Artagnan knew they were thinking the same thing. They had to get out of there; they couldn’t keep battling over and over, trapped in the hallway. Better to meet the enemy head on. 

They started moving as swiftly and quietly as they were able, edging along the wall, swords at the ready. Pausing at the corner, Athos touched d’Artagnan’s hand, questioning. D’Artagnan answered it with two taps of his fingers, and they rounded the corner, blades clashing with the unmistakeable ones of Porthos and Aramis. 

“Don’ come any closer, peacock scum, or we’ll run you through!” Porthos’ voice was fierce.

“Porthos, can you not tell it is us?” cried Athos, parrying against the big musketeer’s attack, at the same time that Aramis battled d’Artagnan.

“It’s me!” shouted d’Artagnan, fending off Aramis’ blows, as Aramis said, “d’Artagnan?”

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” cried Porthos, swinging his sword high at Athos. 

“In front of you!” said d’Artagnan, while Aramis said, “Porthos, it’s them!”

“Enough!” exclaimed Athos, and he and d’Artagnan jumped out of the way and flung their blades to the ground with a noisy clatter. 

Porthos ran forward a few steps, and Aramis stumbled with the extra momentum. 

“I should have known,” he panted, righting himself and embracing d’Artagnan, “that it was you. Nobody is as quick. Like trying to cross blades with lightning.”

Porthos had grabbed Athos and hauled him into a one-armed hug. He gestured to the men slumped behind them; dark lumps barely visible in the corridor.

“Is it ever a fair fight agains’ you two?”

Athos pushed his mask to his forehead and gave him a rare, slightly smug, smile.

“Their majesties?” asked d’Artagnan, at the same time that Athos said, “The king and queen?”

Aramis sheathed his sword, a determined set to his shoulders.

“Treville is with the king, safe and protected, but we must locate the queen. She was separated from the musketeers in the crowd.”

“I need to get to Constance,” declared d’Artagnan, as he bent to the floor and picked up his blade. Athos did the same, and Aramis pushed his hand through his hair.

“Constance?”

“She has something of great importance. For - for the queen.”

Porthos groaned.

“Wha' a mess. Of course she does.”

There was a noise in the hall, and the musketeers turned to see another dozen masked intruders. 

“They seem to be multiplying,” observed Athos.

“More than we can handle, I think,” said Aramis, and d'Artagnan silently agreed. The fight had tired him, and his headache had returned. He sniffed, and ignored Aramis’ face swinging pointedly towards him.

“What do you reckon?”

They were waiting for Athos’ wisdom.

“Run,” was the eloquent response, and they turned and began to race down the hall. They turned a corner and sped towards a set of large bookshelves standing incongruously against a wall. 

They crashed to a stop in front of the shelves, pushing against the hidden, rotating door, but it would not give.

“Why does - it always feel - like we’re the only four Musketeers - in the whole damn regiment?” grunted Porthos as he pushed uselessly against it.

Just when d’Artagnan thought they were trapped, the shelves began to turn inward, and the four friends pushed their way through, tumbling into the dark.


	4. Secret Passageways Get All the Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see what Constance has been up to, and there is a passionate moment in a secret passage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write romantic moments in the Musketeers universe; I like quick doses of action. However, I've been wanting to write a d'Art/Constance scene for awhile, and I've wanted to write d'Art from an outside, unabashedly fangirl view for awhile, so this was a good opportunity for me to do both.
> 
> Upped the rating to "T" for (pretty innocent, but still there) sexual innuendo.

_Forty minutes earlier._

Constance wove determinedly through the bodies, pushing forward through sharp elbows and desperate feet. Her heart was beating fast; she was trying to take deep breaths against the boning of her corset. She could still feel the echo of d’Artagnan’s hands on her waist, and her lips were tingling with his kiss. 

She looked sideways, and her gaze unerringly found his dark head moving swiftly towards the main doors. A thrill of pride mingled with worry: her heroic boy would be hell bent on throwing himself into whatever was happening. 

Another half-breath strained at the stays of her gown, and she looked back towards the candelabra that was her target. She was fighting against the tide; most guests were making their way to the double doors. Just a few more steps…

She collided hard with another body, and an angry exclamation died on her lips as she found herself staring into the worried blue eyes of Queen Anne. 

“Your majesty!” blurted Constance, grabbing the woman by the elbow. It was entirely inappropriate, but the poor woman looked extremely pale. 

“Constance!” relief bled into the queen’s voice.  
“I was separated. I was following Treville, but-” she glanced around, as if expecting to find the Captain calmly standing beside them. 

It took Constance a mere second to come to a decision. 

“This way, your majesty,” she said firmly, and grasping Anne’s hand in her own, began leading them through the last steps of confusion towards the wall. 

Anne’s expression cleared.

“Of course,” she said, and with a quick, careful backwards glance, she pressed her palms to the silk wallpaper. The invisible seam opened a few inches, and the two women disappeared, vanishing into the safety and dark. 

The pandemonium outside became muffled as Constance shut the opening firmly behind them. A flickering candle in a sconce reflected worry in the queen’s large eyes, but she was smiling. 

“I see you know of our passages,” she said, and Constance was glad of the dim light hiding her blush. 

“I-”

“It’s all right, Constance. I am glad that you do.” 

The queen closed her eyes, briefly, then opened them. 

“I must get to the king.”

Anne turned and began walking, and Constance had little choice but to follow. They walked in silence; Constance watching the rustling silk of the sweeping train in front of her, thinking of the evening’s task. 

She knew the passage eventually led to the north balcony, but it must be a good length of the palace; it rose and fell slightly as it continued on. Constance felt as if they were walking deeper and deeper into the depths of the building; the stone at their feet was well-worn, and every few paces a sconce held a lit candle.

At least a quarter of an hour passed as Constance ruminated. Should she stop them both and show the queen the necklace? Surely this secret passage was as safe as it could be?

Anne’s voice carried back to her, as if reading Constance’s thoughts. 

“Have you any news from our friend?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Anne stopped, slowly turning to face her. 

“Well?”

Constance reached with one hand into the hidden folds of her dress, withdrawing a finely wrought gold necklace, adorned with a single, sparkling blue diamond. 

She held it out to the queen, who looked at it like a starving woman. Anne’s hand flew suddenly to her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“I am not alone, then.”

Constance’s own eyes were brimming, but her voice was steady as she answered. 

“Never, your majesty.”

Anne smiled, suddenly, and reached out, clasping Constance’s other hand. 

“Oh, Constance! These horrible men in the masks tonight - but - there is hope, after all!”

Constance found herself being pulled into a warm and genuine embrace, and returned it. They smiled at each other, then began walking along the passage again, this time side by side. Anne tucked the necklace into her sleeve.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, for the risk you took, delivering my letter and getting this to me.”

“Oh no, your majesty.”

“And the Musketeers, for I believe they must be the ones who told you of this passage, and in so doing, helped you escape danger tonight. They are remarkable men.”

Anne looked over at her slyly. 

“Especially their new recruit.”

Constance thought of d’Artagnan spinning her around the dance floor, and heat rose to her face.

“I don’t know who you mean.”

Anne laughed, but stopped suddenly. Quick footsteps could be heard, far ahead in the darkness.  
Constance took a step. 

“Let me go see.”

“Constance!”

Constance moved d’Artagnan’s cape aside, showing the queen the sword that he had belted at her waist. 

“Better me than you, majesty.”

Anne gave her a hesitant nod, and Constance turned and set off towards the footsteps. 

She moved quietly along, one imagined impossibility of what she was going to meet being quickly replaced with the next.

She gripped the hilt of D’Artagnan’s sword, its ornate metal work reassuringly solid beneath her hands. The footsteps were fast approaching; she took a last, desperate breath and shook her curls back from her face.

She saw a glittering peacock mask, and her breath caught, but in the next moment, the tall figure in the dark materialized into d’Artagnan.

He stopped suddenly, the battle-ready ferocity etched in the lines of his frame replaced with recognition.

“Constance!”

She lifted a hand, indicating his mask. 

“That is what those men were wearing.”

D’Artagnan grinned in the flickering light, lifting the mask to his forehead and scrubbing a hand down his jaw.

“Athos’ idea: he is always a step ahead.”

His eyes were raking over her; he was checking to make sure she was all right. 

“You’re safe.”

She took a step towards him. 

“Thanks to you.”

He took a step closer as well. The passage wasn’t that wide; the walls seemed to close in around them.

“The queen is with me, she is behind us around the last corner, safe as well.”

D’Artagnan raised a hand to run it through his hair, then let out a relieved laugh. 

“Thank God.”

His laugh had not quite covered a slight wince that he made when he raised his arm, and Constance moved closer still, her hand in the air. 

“Are you hurt?”

Determined denial came across his features. 

“It’s nothing.”

She sighed. 

“Let me see.”

It was a command that he would have followed for nobody but her, and they both knew it. He unbuttoned his jacket and shook it from his shoulders, his face carefully neutral. He lifted the hem of his shirt from beneath his trousers, revealing tan skin and lean muscles. 

She looked up at him, and he raised his eyebrows, grinning. He knew the effect he was having, the scoundrel.

Constance rolled her eyes. 

“At least your pride hasn’t-”

She stopped short as she saw the wound; an angry-looking cut that edged along the right side of his torso.

It was not deep, and wasn’t serious, but it must be hurting him all the same. 

Constance reached towards him, wishing her hand wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t the only one; the planes of d’Artagnan’s abdominal muscles were shaking. Already, his time in the Musketeers had left its mark; white scars and pink lines contrasted with the golden skin.

She felt as if she were crossing a line that she would never be able to come back from. The seconds stretched into eternity. Then, lighter than air, her fingers touched gently to the skin just above the red line.

D’Artagnan sucked in a breath; muscles flexing beneath her hand, and she looked up at him. He was biting down onto his lower lip, but as her eyes met his, he breathed slowly out. 

No charming grin this time, just those sparkling brown eyes swallowing her whole, burning her with their earnest intensity. Then he was leaning down, bending his head low to hers, and there was no turning back. 

Oh, _God_ , he knew how to use that mouth of his for more than smart replies and retorts. His lips were loving and insistent, and there was nothing in the world she wanted to do but open her own beneath them. 

He backed her up against the wall, covering her body with his own, strong hands stroking down the sides of her dress with unreserved joy. 

His kisses were the best of him; that confidence coming out to play with deference to her own reaction. She understood exactly why he was so good in a sword fight; he picked up on her body’s cues so quickly it made her head spin, offering them back to her beautifully and skillfully, his hands by turns gentle and teasing, then playfully rough.

Their kiss was rising; his tongue was deep in her mouth and it was a shocking, sinful type of bliss. She abandoned herself to him, to the moment, to this brave and beautiful boy who was lighting her up from within.

“D’Artagnan,” she managed to gasp, when he broke the kiss and began a feverish descent of his lips down her neck and onto her decolletage, the feather of his mask tickling her jaw. Her heartbeat seemed to be located somewhere near her stomach, and it had become a deep, pleasurable pulse that was steadily building into something desperate and urgent that she had no name for. 

She was panting and writhing against him absolutely shamefully, and she had no vent except to let her hands explore farther than she had ever dared. He stopped his attention to her collarbone and captured her mouth in his again, and she ran her hands down his chest. She roamed them lower still, to his trousers and the insistent hardness there. She stroked her hands daringly against him and was rewarded with a low moan into her mouth. 

He broke their kiss, and looked into her eyes.

“D’Artagnan,” she whispered again, wanting more, wanting - what, exactly?

“D’Artagnan!” A voice came down the corridor. 

She could feel d’Artagnan’s chest moving up and down rapidly against hers; he was radiating heat. 

The voice came again, with more urgency.

“D’Artagnan?”

“Aramis,” breathed d’Artagnan, smiling at Constance but looking rueful. 

Aramis rounded the corner, taking in Constance panting and pressed up against d’Artagnan. He smiled. 

“Well! I see you’ve found the source of the noise we heard.”

The handsome musketeer’s eyes traveled to d’Artagnan’s jacket on the floor, then danced merrily back up to them.

“And thoroughly got to work subduing the clearly dangerous threat. Good job.”

D’Artagnan bristled. 

“I wasn’t-”

“Constance?”

The queen came tentatively around the corner, and the smug expression was wiped right off Aramis’ face as he moved to the side and bowed low. D’Artagnan, with Constance in his arms, inclined his head.

Anne looked at Constance, amused, then swept past them with dignity. 

Constance hurried to follow, looking back just in time to see d’Artagnan pick up his jacket from the floor, and Aramis give him a gleeful grin.


	5. D'Artagnan Figures it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers are trapped, but maybe d'Artagnan can piece things together...

D’Artagnan was _soaring._

He was barely aware of Aramis’ pointed, mirthful glances. The dimly lit passageway was suffused with a golden glow; the whole world seemed built on endless possibility. D’Artagnan gave himself over to memory and relived the feel of Constance’s lips against his, her body pressed close. 

His heart was a thrilled staccato beating merrily in his blood. He felt ten feet tall and vastly unconquerable.

“-did you hear anything I said?”

An abrupt turn in the passage, and Aramis’ sharp tone brought d’Artagnan back to the present. They came up on the rest of the group; Athos and Porthos just rising from their bows to the queen. Constance’s presence was like a sunbeam.

“So,” declared Athos, his gaze falling upon each of them in turn, frowning slightly at d'Artagnan's glazed expression. “We have the masked men in the hall behind this door, and more of them at the far end, in the ballroom behind the other.”

Porthos shrugged, rolling his shoulders.

“We can take ‘em.”

Aramis flashed a smile.

“Of course.”

Athos gave them an exasperated look.

“They have set an effective trap; you suggest we merely walk into their waiting arms.”

“The longer we stand here talking, the more men they can gather,” pointed out d’Artagnan, gaining back focus and crossing his arms.

“I will not send my valued musketeers into slaughter,” said the queen, her gaze settling a second too long on Aramis, her hand travelling low onto the bodice of her dress. 

Porthos rumbled a laugh. 

“Yer majesty, with all due respect, it’d be us slaughterin’ them.”

Anne gave him a fond look, and gestured to Athos.

“I have no doubt of it, Porthos, but I believe your lieutenant has made a fair point. You may very well be outnumbered.”

Constance made a frustrated sound. 

“Who ARE these men?”

“It doesn’t matter,” returned Aramis. “The longer we stand here talking-”

At this, everyone began speaking at once. D’Artagnan exchanged a look with Athos, who gave him a rueful lift of his eyebrows. Something was nagging at the edges of d’Artagnan’s memory; a piece of the puzzle that was right there in front of them. He cast his mind back to earlier in the evening, when he and Athos had fought the group of masked men in the hallway.

_"We told your little mistress back there-."_

“I have it!” he said suddenly, snapping his fingers. Nobody paid him any mind, except Athos.

“Have what?”

“Do you remember,” d’Artagnan said to him, “when we fought against the first group? Do you remember what the leader said to me, taunting me before the fight?”

Athos’ blue eyes gleamed with sudden understanding. 

“They mentioned Constance!” D’Artagnan exclaimed, and began to pace in front of the group as they fell silent, watching him.

“They knew her, and not only that, they knew Constance and I were-that we-”

At this, he quieted, and wheeled to a stop. Constance was standing in front of him, blushing hotly. He looked into her eyes. He wouldn't embarrass her. 

Constance met his gaze with fierce determination.

“You’re saying they knew our history. Our affair.”

D’Artagnan almost kissed her right then; that boldness of hers sending a bolt of heat to his spine. Instead, he clenched a fist against the torrent of emotion racing its way through him.

“Which means they know who we are.”

Porthos looked from d’Artagnan to Athos, his eyebrows coming together. “I don’ understand.”

Athos crossed his arms. 

“These men are familiar with this palace and its court.”

He looked at Porthos, offering a tight smile.

“It stands to reason that they are already known to us, as well.”

“The Cardinal! And his Red Guard,” growled Aramis, shaking his head angrily at the dirt floor.

“The Cardinal is very ill,” protested the queen. “He is for the strength of France, although it may not always appear so.” 

Athos nodded. 

“I am inclined to agree, in this case.”

D’Artagnan’s mind was racing. He was facing Athos, the lieutenant’s blue eyes cool and quick as they looked at each other. Then, d’Artagnan grinned at the same time that Athos smiled. 

“Tussac,” Athos said succinctly, at the same time that d’Artagnan said, “the Cardinal is indeed ill, which means his successor is eager to make his move.”

The queen looked from one to the other. 

“Let us go to them, and I shall stop this nonsense immediately. I will order them arrested.”

“No,” said Aramis, stepping in front of her. “It is too dangerous.” 

Athos nodded. 

“I do not suggest you walk right into their snare, your majesty; you would only be giving them what they wish.”

“Then what is to be done?” said Constance. 

D’Artagnan turned to her, grinning.

“We set a trap for _them._ ”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Constance walked with d’Artagnan along the tunnel, slightly ahead of the others. She felt him steal a glance at her determined profile.

She glanced over, catching him.

“Ready?”

“I am always ready,” he returned quickly, grinning, and her heart tightened. Always with a rapid reply, always with unending confidence. Did he never show his fear, his worry?

Their stolen kiss seemed to linger in the darkness around them, and Constance cleared her throat. 

“Here we are,” he whispered, and she was surprised to see they had reached the doorway. 

They exchanged a last look, and they reached for each other’s hand at the same time. Her resolve weakened, and he must have sensed it, because he grinned again into the dark, that broad, bright smile. 

“Let us have some fun, shall we?” he whispered, and she had never loved him more, then, for his wide-open confidence, his belief in them all.

She nodded, and they walked into the ballroom. Tussac was waiting, as predicted, with a silent, leering group of his masked men. Constance swallowed. This must work. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tussac was smiling, and it made d'Artagnan want to stab the man through with his sword.

“Ah, if it isn’t the puppy and his little mistress! I think the game is up, lovebirds, don’t you?” Tussac looked at the door to the passageway behind them. 

“I would bet that your Musketeer friends are hiding behind that door there, ready to pounce.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. 

“Lucky for you, Tussac, I am a betting man.” He drew his sword, returned to him earlier by Constance, and whipped it through the air. Tussac was frowning.

"How did you know-?"

“Shall we make a bet, then?” d'Artagnan interrupted, pacing forward, and Constance slowly began to edge farther towards the door at the opposite end of the ballroom. 

Tussac drew his own sword. 

“I’m listening.”

They circled each other, the other men shifting uneasily, watching. D’Artagnan kept his gaze fixed on Tussac. It was imperative to keep the man's focus. D'Artagnan cocked his head innocently.

“I bet that there isn’t a single Musketeer in the passage. It is only me, here with you, one against half a dozen.”

Tussac sneered. 

“You lie.”

D’Artagnan shrugged, then grinned. 

“Perhaps.” He ran his blade along the edge of Tussac’s, teasing. 

“Or perhaps, while I have been speaking with you, we have sent for the king. I’m sure he is curious to know where his queen has got to.”

Tussac scoffed. 

“I highly doubt-”

He stopped himself, then turned to the far wall, where Constance had just left the room, closing the door behind her. 

“After her!” he roared, and his men moved, confused, just as Athos, Porthos and Aramis burst from the passage door. The men turned again, and Tussac yelled in frustration. 

D’Artagnan laughed.

“Take heart, Tussac. There were indeed Musketeers waiting; you won the bet!”

He saw one of the men run to the door that Constance had used, and fervently wished she had enough of a head start.

Then, as his brothers walked up behind him, he turned back to face the fight. 

“En garde, you rogues. This pup is ready to show his teeth.”


	6. The Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a busy end of the evening for d'Artagnan.

Constance flew through the deserted palace, her feet pounding hard into lush carpet as she turned another corner. She could hear a man in pursuit, but she just had to make it-

There! She rounded another corner to the music room and ran into it, slamming the door behind her and turning the lock before running to the opposite wall. Her fingers scrambled along the tapestry, and she whispered desperately.

“Please, where is it, where is-” she felt the hidden seam, just as d’Artagnan had promised, and with it, another passageway entrance. She slipped in and began running again, her chest heaving and her mind racing with d’Artagnan’s directions as she navigated her way to the left of a split in her path. Her corset was squeezing the air steadily from her lungs and her breathing was coming in sharp stabs of air, but she kept on, gasping, until she reached the end. She wrenched the door open and threw herself into the king’s private sitting room, sprawling to the floor in front of King Louis, Captain Treville, and more than twenty musketeers. 

“Madame Bonacieux!” exclaimed Treville, going immediately to her and helping her sit up. Constance looked up at the room of astonished royal faces, fought for breath, and immediately began talking.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Constance paced down the dark hallway with Treville and a small musketeer escort, hurrying to keep up with the captain’s brisk pace as he led the group towards the ballroom. She glanced out the massive windows as they passed, catching sight of the palace’s sprawling lawns. The garden labyrinth was frosted with snowdrifts, blanketed in sparkling moonlight. What was the hour? 

She ran her fingers along a fold of her silvery dress, noting with detached amusement how rumpled and dirty it was. Her glittering mask was long lost to the night’s various adventures. 

The evening’s mission for the queen had been accomplished, but the attack on the palace from Tussac and his masked men had almost succeeded. Had it not been for Treville’s favourite musketeers and-

D’Artagnan. 

Her face flushed as their earlier, burning interlude rushed in at her, warming her blood. His strong hands running deftly down her body. The scratch of his stubble contrasting pleasantly with the silkiness of his hair, tangled in her fingers. His kisses, hungry and deep and loving all at once, his lean strength keeping her pushed against the wall. 

She hadn’t known it was possible to be kissed like that, until she met him. Hadn’t known that her body could be turned into an unending throb of pleasure, thrumming with need, aching for a touch that only he could give.

And now he was fighting a room full of Tussac’s men. She clenched her hands together, refusing to give into panic.

“Stay with Fabron, Madame,” said Treville, and Constance looked up, surprised to find that they had reached the ballroom already. She could hear the muffled grunts and the tang of steel against steel on the other side of the door. The captain gave her a quick, reassuring nod, then pushed the door open. 

The rest of them followed, quickly and quietly. Fabron stayed at Constance’s side just inside the door as the others ran to join the fight. Within seconds, it was full-on chaos. Constance couldn’t see Tussac, but then she spotted what she had been searching the room for: d’Artagnan’s tall and lean form, his body and sword a whirlwind.

He seemed to bend the rules of the fight to his advantage, teasing one thing, then shifting again in another, but finishing in a place that nobody but him seemed to predict.

Another second and she almost screamed as his opponent’s blade narrowly missed his chest, but it was blocked with a sure hand by Athos, coming from nowhere like a smooth shadow. She thought it must have been a lucky save, but then d’Artagnan, not missing a beat, used Athos’ move as leverage, turning and catching the other man off-guard, spinning and making a killing blow. 

D’Artagnan and Athos strode forward together as a pair, taking on another three of Tussac’s men. She bit into her hand; how did they predict each other’s movements like that? Watching the two of them together was like witnessing opposing forces come together in a perfect storm. Athos moved with complete control; each stroke powerful and deadly, d’Artagnan working around him and completing each move that Athos began. They blurred the edges of possibility; they danced at the edge of death and pulled each other back from the brink, second after second, move after move.

Constance gulped another breath as Athos swung his sword in the air behind the man, surely that was a mistake, but no, d’Artagnan was there, his own blade completing the deadly arc and slicing in the front. They pulled their swords across the man’s torso in the same beat, and he fell to the ground. 

Athos turned away, and in the sudden stillness of the ballroom, Constance became aware that the last of the masked men had surrendered.

Tussac and d’Artagnan alone remained facing each other, and a silent, implicit understanding rippled through the room: this was down to the two of them. This was a fight to the death that both men needed to win. 

There was no banter this time. No showing off. A few steps of pacing, of taking each other’s measure, then they each launched forward, their blades exchanging fast and furious blows.

Constance put her hand to her mouth; she couldn’t bear the wild determination on d’Artagnan’s face as his sword flashed.

She had never seen him move so fast, and she gasped as he dodged a stab to his stomach with unearthly speed. He was throwing himself into it, every move and grunt a searing effort of will. The tips of his hair were damp with sweat, blood staining his shirt near the hem from where he had been cut earlier. Every line of muscle was tense, every grimace going straight to her heart.

They fought on, closer and closer together, and then it was all decided in a few seconds. Tussac turned on his heel and elbowed d’Artagnan hard in the mouth. The older man laughed in triumph as D’Artagnan’s head flew to the side, but the young Gascon kept his stance, whipped his face back again, and used the moment to slide his sword smoothly into Tussac’s chest.

There was a gurgling sound as Tussac shuddered, and d’Artagnan pressed his blade further. 

Tussac crashed to his knees, his upper body sliding slowly to the floor, eyes wide with disbelief as he looked up at d’Artagnan.

“You- damned Musketeers-” he gurgled.

“Have prevailed,” hissed d’Artagnan. He pulled out his sword again with a wrench. “And we always will.” 

Tussac slumped to the floor, silent.

Then the room erupted, musketeers shouting congratulations and swarming around d’Artagnan. Treville began calling orders, and various men sprang into action, herding Tussac’s brutes away, turning tables back over and crowding around each other. Fabron bowed, then went to join in, and Constance was left alone, watching d’Artagnan. 

He was shaking his head and laughing as men surrounded him, breathing so hard that she could see the rise and fall of his chest from where she stood. His eyes were searching the room, above the heads of the crowd, then locked onto hers. She watched, her heart thumping painfully as he strode towards her.

He stopped in front of her, a slightly shy look on his face. The side of his mouth was cut from Tussac’s hit, and someone had given him a handkerchief to press to them to stop the bleeding. It must have caused him pain, but he grinned down at her.

Her heart felt like it would break open at the sight of that wide-open smile, and she shook her head, reaching a hand up to his cheek.

He made a show of shrugging his shoulders.

“Tussac didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

She smiled at this typical bravado. 

“My brave d’Artagnan,” she said. “Is there nothing that you fear?”

His brown eyes were sparkling down into hers.

“I feared you were in danger, tonight. I feared losing you,” he said softly, and it was in moments like this, when he stated his feelings so naturally, without artifice or show, that she was in danger of falling for him deeper than ever.

“Constance,” he began, and she knew that look on his face, that burning, utter sincerity that came with him showing his heart so openly, and she shook her head.

“You know we cannot,” she whispered, stopping him. “I cannot.” His eyes began to fill, and she smiled at him, her heart breaking all over again.

“We had tonight,” she said, her voice catching, and he took her hands in his, bringing them to his lips.

“How will you get safely-” he began, and had to stop, his throat working.

“Treville has promised an escort,” she replied. “You must do me this favour, d'Artagnan, and say goodnight to me, or else I’ll lose my resolve.”

She almost wished he would insist otherwise, but she knew him: appeal to his sense of duty, and he’d follow any order she gave.

Sure enough, he nodded at her, his eyes shining, then turned and began to walk back towards Athos, Aramis and Porthos, who were standing together in a corner, waiting for him. D’Artagnan’s stride was heavy and slow, but he was holding his head up determinedly.

She watched as Athos clapped d’Artagnan once on the shoulder, looking directly into the younger man’s eyes and speaking. D’Artagnan replied, causing Athos to huff a note of laughter. Constance rarely saw the older musketeer smile, but he did more often when her Gascon boy was there to bring it out.

The opposite was true as well, though: she watched as the slump to d’Artagnan’s shoulders straightened as he nodded to what Athos was saying, then turn willingly into Aramis’ outstretched arms for a quick embrace, and his face split into a reluctant smile as Porthos reached over and tousled the younger man’s hair. 

One last glance behind him, then Constance took a shaky breath as the four men lead d’Artagnan out of the ballroom; he would be all right. 

“Madame Bonacieux,” came a friendly voice, and she looked over to see Captain Treville bowing low, his blue eyes kind.

“I shall see you home.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Ready?” Aramis held up the curved needle in the glowing candlelight of the infirmary, and d’Artagnan sighed at the now-familiar sight of it. Then he shrugged and gave Aramis a smile.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Aramis returned the smile, then lowered the needle to d’Artagnan’s skin and proceeded to stitch. 

D’Artagnan let out his breath through gritted teeth, then relaxed slightly as his body, remembering this particular pain, settled into tolerating the bearable pattern of the needle working. He sniffed, and Aramis lifted his eyes quickly to glance up at d’Artagnan, eyes sharp.

“Is that the winter cold, as I predicted?”

“No.” D’Artagnan sniffed again.

“Ah. And it certainly wouldn’t have to do anything with the lovely Madame Bonacieux.” Aramis’ voice was carefully light. 

“Any more than your lingering looks towards the throne tonight has to do with her majesty,” said d’Artagnan, grinning at his brother. He was only teasing; he had no doubt imagined Aramis’ glances towards the queen throughout the evening, but Aramis, surprisingly, cleared his throat and squinted a touch harder than necessary at his sewing.

D’Artagnan blinked, then changed the subject, deciding it was coincidence.

Porthos entered the infirmary, bearing four cups, followed by Athos, carrying a bottle of wine. They both came up to the bed as Aramis finished tying off the stiching. 

“There!” Aramis turned, rinsing his hands in a bowl of water, then squeezing d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

“It wasn’t deep; that should heal quickly, as long as you stay out of trouble.”

“Good luck with that,” chuckled Porthos. “You know who you’re talkin’ to.” He glanced at d’Artagnan. 

“Maybe try listenin’ to Aramis, though. Just for a little bit.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “I might as well. I feel like I gained an entire kingdom, tonight. And then lost it all, in the end. What else is there for me, now?”

Aramis grinned. 

“Spoken like a true melodramatic knight, pining after his love.” He looked at d’Artagnan, giving him an encouraging nod.

“Let’s toast to the memorable night we had, gentlemen.” 

Athos, who had been pouring out the wine, handed each of them a glass. The four men raised their cups.

“To stopping Tussac an’ his plan,” declared Porthos.

“To brilliant swordsmanship,” said Athos, giving d’Artagnan a raise of his eyebrows.

“To love, lost and found,” smiled Aramis.

“To my brothers, who have helped with all of the above,” said d’Artagnan, smiling at them in spite of himself, warmth spreading through him as he looked at each of them in turn. They touched the rims of their cups together in unison before drinking. 

Aramis began to gather his things. “Let’s give d’Artagnan some rest. I would love for that cut to have some time to heal, and I don’t wish for his cold to get worse.”

“Yeah, get some rest. You’ll need it for next week.” Porthos clapped d’Artagnan heavily on the shoulder. 

“Next week?” D’Artagnan tried to recall their schedule of duties to his tired mind. 

“Yeah, don’ you remember?” Porthos grinned. “We’re on guard duty. At the king’s birthday masquerade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! I started this around Christmas - so I'm very sorry for the delay. It's been a blast to write, as always, and thank you for following along! I so appreciate the comments and kudos - thank you, thank you!


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